


porcelain fists

by forcynics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, guardian figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr watches Sansa maintain her new identity and reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	porcelain fists

Petyr watches her every day, studies the way she constructs herself piece by porcelain piece. 

Sansa is playing the role he cast her in, but she is playing it so _well_ , with words so soft and smiles so sweet that no one even attempts to see what lies underneath. She’s the attraction and the distraction all at once, and it’s only on rare occasions that the act slips; her eyes darken, or her gaze turns sharp, and it’s impossible to see her as a girl of fourteen when she has the eyes of a woman who’s seen more than a child ever should.

Petyr will point this out to her later, in the confines of his chamber, in whispered tones. _Your eyes are your weakness,_ he will tell her, and he will show her how to cover this weakness up too, turn her eyes to glass that gives nothing away. Smooth glass worn by the sea, he thinks. Bright blue.

 

 

She is not his daughter, no more than he is her father, for all the lies they tell the world; but he is proud of her, as he thinks a father should be proud. She learns so quickly, and builds her illusion with perfect grace and poise. 

He confides in her, one puzzle piece of a plan at a time, always testing, and he is impressed when she understands. 

He studies her face as she works out the puzzle, mentally arranging the pieces with her pink lips pressed together. He sees when she slides them into place, when she gets it, sees the brightness flash in her eyes before she tucks it away, just as he’s taught her.

 

 

Sansa looks like her mother, but she loses some of that semblance when she becomes the living, breathing doll he’s dubbed Alayne. 

When her skin is porcelain and her eyes are glass, she doesn’t look like Catelyn Tully; it is only in those rare moments when she comes alive that Petyr sees it in her, and cannot see anything else - _Riverrun and the way she laughed and stolen kisses under willow trees_. 

He lets himself tangle his fingers in her dark hair - it is his least favourite part of the disguise, and he tugs it for this reason. 

She doesn’t gasp, or squeak; she doesn’t react except to narrow her sea glass eyes at him, and the furrow of her brow almost appears a set of cracks to him.

He lets himself invade closer to her, slides his hand around the nape of her neck and pulls his most impressive work, sweet, sweet Alayne, closer to him. There is nothing gentle in the movement; she is always soft and gentle, and though he’s taught her to armor herself in this, wear the mask as she would a steel helm, he wants to break it all apart, or at least know that he can. 

So there is nothing gentle in the way he kisses her either, sudden and hard, curious if those lips will feel like porcelain too, or if he’ll find another weakness.

She makes a noise _then_ , the beginning of a gasp which he catches with his mouth and forces away, satisfaction radiating through. His fingers curl more tightly in her hair, and he savors the moment, drains it dry before slowly releasing his hold, stepping back. 

Her eyes are startled, alive again, and he sees her fingers twitch, wonders if she meant to touch them to her lips. He sees her breathe in, _hears_ the rasp of air, says nothing as he watches her piece herself back together. It takes a moment, but her eyes dull, and the corners of her mouth settle back into place.

“Is that all you would have of me, Father?” she asks in a clear voice, and she is Alayne again, his construction reconstructed perfectly even after he saw fit to tear it down.

“Yes,” he tells her. His gaze does not stray as he watches her leave in a pretty swirl of skirts, and he thinks yes, he is proud of this one.


End file.
